


amatus

by bygoneboy



Series: nobody expects the ferelden inquisition [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Insecurity, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Poor Dorian, Romantic Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:38:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bygoneboy/pseuds/bygoneboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wishing but wondering, wounded and wistful-- what if he doesn’t want me after...?”</p><p>Inspired by one of those Cole rambles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	amatus

**Author's Note:**

> [I have a tumblr](http://bygoneboy.tumblr.com)

Dorian Pavus hates a choice number of things.

Rain on the Storm Coast. The way his carefully-polished boots cake with mud in the Fallow Mire. The flimsy material of the Inquisition tents that do absolutely nothing to curb the sharp, biting wind that roars through their Hinterland camps. He hates Vivienne’s cruel clever wit, the indignant squawks of Leliana’s crows; he hates his father-- less so now, it’s true, but that kind of betrayal is not easily forgiven.

And although it’s hard to hate a sweet, tiny thing like Cole, there are limits to a man, and how much nonsense he can stand.

“Wishing but wondering,” Cole murmurs, “wounded but wanting--”

“Oh, be quiet already,” Dorian says sharply; it’s the third poetic ramble that the young spirit has began since they left Skyhold’s walls and it’s grating on his nerves. “I’ve had enough of you for today.”

But Cole raises big clear eyes to meet Dorian’s from under the wide brim of his fraying hat and continues, unperturbed. “He is a magister’s son but he is more, marvelous, the most clever man you’ve ever met.”

“For the love of Andraste, Cole,” Dorian cuts over him, miffed and losing patience quickly. “First you’re on about my father, now this? That was five years ago and it was nothing serious, I didn’t care if--”

“He tells you he loves the way you _look,_ making love, longing for more when you are with him, lost when you are not.”

“That--” Dorian’s breath catches in his throat, sharp like the blade of Cole’s dagger, and then he’s gritting his teeth, bitterness pooling in his gut. “That’s enough,” he says, voice hard. “Do you hear me, Cole? I want you to--”

“It escapes you. The word, _amatus,_ and he runs, stunned and startled, but you didn’t mean to scare him, you only thought he should know that to you he is--”

“Enough!” Dorian snaps, too loud, too harsh, and Cole withers with a quiet gasp, dissolving into thin air within moments.

Wonderful, now he’s made the Darling of the Inquisition cry. And, he assumes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, knowing how the Inquisitor dotes on said Darling--

“Dorian?”

Yes, there it is. He raises his head to see the Inquisitor approaching, a half-filled pouch of spindleweed in one hand and Cole’s spectral fingers wrapped around the other. Galahad Trevelyan has always had a knack for sheltering the misfits of Thedas, and for, apparently, mopping up the messes Dorian is so incredibly good at making.

“Cole is upset,” Galahad says questioningly. The spirit, still clutching his hand, tugs his hat down further over his forehead. “You didn’t say anything...unkind, did you?”

“Only to piss off,” Dorian replies irritably, “if he keeps sticking his nose in my business--”

“He wants to do good,” Galahad says gently.

From next to him, Cole quavers. “I just wanted to help,” the spirit whispers.

Now they’re both blinking unhappily at him.

Dorian can’t stand it.

“I apologize,” he mutters at last; the only thing that is remotely worth it is the smile he gets from Galahad in return.

Maker forbid Cole sees into _that_ part of him-- but something tells him the spirit already has.

 

\---

 

The first time they kissed was soft but sudden, the sole burning light in the darkness of a day when Dorian’s whole world had come crashing down around him, and blindly, thoughtlessly, he had driven himself headfirst, into this-- this _something._

Something where Galahad looks at him with deep violet eyes that Dorian doesn’t know how to counter, where Galahad touches the small of his back when no one else is looking, where Galahad pulls Dorian against him in the library, kissing him with the aroma of old books floating through the air and the taste of lyrium on his tongue, and then goes on his way.

Dorian does not know what _this_ is, and he is afraid to ask.

Afraid to speak his mind.

Because the last time he’d--

Because he is used to _quick._ Quick, and fast, and rough, but Galahad likes slow. Likes teasing, likes deliberate. He presses soft, open-mouthed kisses against Dorian’s neck, holds Dorian different, slowing Dorian down, those violet eyes like sedative, pale skin like pearl…

Not that they’ve done anything too risqué. But Dorian’s not stupid. He knows Galahad will want more, want _further,_ eventually.

And after _further,_ whatever this is…

“Thank you,” comes Galahad’s voice from behind him-- Dorian has already shed his armor for the day and settled back into his library corner, but now he lays down the book he’d been paging through and turns, just in time for Galahad’s fingers to brush his neck, his lips soft against Dorian's cheek.

“Hello to you, too,” Dorian says, slightly breathless, when Galahad pulls away. “What are you thanking me for?”

Galahad’s smile is so pleased Dorian wants to drown himself in it. “You apologized to Cole,” he explains. “I know you prefer him to be silent, I know he can be bothersome--”

Dorian waves it off. “He wants to do good,” he replies, parroting Galahad’s words back at him. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on him, it was wrong of me. You know my temper can be...well. I don’t mean the things I say, when I’m worked up.”

“Really, now?” And there's a glint in Galahad's eye that Dorian likes. “Hopefully you mean some of them.”

“Oh?” Even after the weeks of it, he never really tires of the flirting. “What exactly are you implying?”

Galahad laughs, shaking his head and drawing closer, hands sliding around Dorian's waist. “Cute," he whispers. "Only I’m afraid I'm not in the mood for banter.”

Yes, Galahad wants _further._

And when he’s close, clouding Dorian’s mind the way he does...it’s hard for Dorian to remember why _further_ isn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

He ends up backing Galahad up against one of the bookshelves, as it happens, with both of them flushing quite prettily and Galahad’s eyes fluttering closed and he can’t seem to stop raking his hands through Galahad’s hair and, unlike Galahad, Dorian has no patience-- and so despite the circumstances and despite the confusion of _this_ and _further_ he just kind of kicks Galahad’s feet apart and slips his thigh in between his legs and _moves_ and Galahad _moans._

Loud.

Which is a bit of a problem, considering that immediately Dorian wants to do it _again._

And that is a particularly bad idea for a few reasons.

They are not in private-- the library is not Dorian’s exclusively, although it’s true that no one else spends half as much time there as he does-- and Solas is very much within earshot and the leader of the Circle Mages is standing a _fade step away--_

So he rests his fingers over Galahad’s mouth, a gentle, apologetic warning.

Which also turns out to be a bit of a problem as well as an astoundingly bad idea, because Galahad, damn him, parts his lips, and sucks on the tips of Dorian’s fingers.

And then grinds back up against his thigh, and moans again.

“For the love of-- oh, _amatus--”_ If his face wasn’t flushed before, its color probably now resembles something like the scarlet red cushions of the loveseat behind him, and he is so entranced that he doesn’t realize he is saying it, breathing it like a prayer, eyes squeezed shut, nose buried in Galahad’s neck--

 _“Amatus?”_ Galahad repeats, and Dorian’s head snaps back, his heart thudding frantically, frightened.

_No, please, don’t ask--_

“What is that?” Galahad wonders, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Some kind of Tevene expletive?”

“I-- I am not doing this here,” Dorian says firmly, changing the subject, and then, considerably less firmly, as Galahad mouths at the skin above his collarbones, “I’m-- I’m _not.”_

 _“Am-a-tus,”_ Galahad says again, ignoring him and biting gently at his earlobe instead, and Dorian is the one moaning now. “Is it Tevinter for handsome? What does it mean, Dorian, please, come on, tell me--”

“I don’t know,” Dorian lies moronically, hot sweat running down the base of his spine; he bites back strained cusses as Galahad nibbles his way up his neck. “It’s just a word, I don’t-- oh, _f-fasta vaas, venhedis,_ Galahad--”

Galahad leans back to click his tongue, his smile wicked. “Now, those must be obscenities, with the way you’ve said them. Such language, and from an esteemed member of House Pavus, too?”

“I-I don’t think I’m allowed to consider myself an-- an _esteemed_ member,” Dorian snorts, but his voice is still breathless and his words stumble. Galahad’s fingers grip his hips, draw him closer, angling them together just _so--_

“Oh,” the Inquisitor sighs, tugging on the tips of Dorian’s hair, lips grazing the edge of his jaw as Dorian vainly tries to keep from blindly rubbing up against him. “The noises you make, Dorian, you’re incredible, you are, when you blush like-- yes, just like that--”

Dorian chokes. It’s ridiculous, the whole scenario, doesn’t Galahad have any _shame--_ but then again, Dorian’s name on his lips and such pretty words following it, his eyes squeeze shut in embarrassment because _please,_ no one has ever spoken to him like this and he wants more, _for the love of Andraste keep talking, keep talking, tell me--_

Galahad must see it in the hot scarlet blush that creeps over his ears, in the way he ducks his chin, because immediately he takes initiative again, rocking against Dorian rhythmically with whispers of “beautiful, you’re beautiful, I’ll take care of you and you don’t need to worry, I’ll make you feel so damn good, Dorian, I love--”

_Yes, yes, please, please tell me--_

“I love you like this,” Galahad finishes.

And it breaks the spell.

Because there is such an incredible divide between _I love you_ and _I love you like this,_ and Dorian can’t stand to be only the latter.

Not to Galahad.

“Wait--” he says suddenly, going deathly still. The fading blush is still scorching his skin, the softness of Galahad's mouth still lingering over his lips, but there’s a sour taste in the air that’s growing, choking him, eyes stinging with the crushing humiliation of _want--_

And nothing more than want.

Not on Galahad’s part, anyhow.

He can tell that Galahad knows something is wrong in the way that the Inquisitor’s hands still over his body, in the way that he eases up, steps away, gives him space. “I need--” Dorian stammers, watching Galahad’s lilac eyes, luminous and strange, grow wide, fixed, distress deepening in the creases at their corners.

 _Take him!_ The thought echoes, loud, in the back of Dorian’s mind. _Take him, he’s offering himself to you and it is the best you will ever get, you’re a fool to hope for more. What you want is beyond what he can give so take him--_

“I’m sorry,” Dorian says, quietly. “I know this is abrupt. I just, I need to be alone.”

Galahad flinches, just slightly, and he covers it well but not well enough. “Okay,” he says, nodding fervently, but Dorian can see in in his face, the hurt, guilt-- Galahad has done nothing wrong but how can _he_ know that? And Dorian’s heart clenches with the way he turns, resignedly, and starts down the stairs, shuffling awkwardly and tugging his shirt down over his trousers.

Oh, he realizes, as he watches him go-- Maker, he must think that Dorian _doesn’t_ want him.

When the truth is that Dorian simply wants too much.

 

\---

 

“You’re not happy, Dorian,” Cole says one day, absentmindedly, as they prepare to set out from camp in somewhere in the Hinterlands.

“Now, Cole.” Dorian is trying to clean a blood stain out of the gray-green robes Galahad had bought him on a sun-hazed afternoon in Redcliffe, just a few days ago now. He had protested, of course-- he could pay for his own things, but Galahad had insisted that they brought out the flecks of green in Dorian’s eyes, and, well...

 _Think of them as a gift,_ Galahad had said.

“I have everything I’ve ever wanted,” Dorian continues, pulling his mind back toward the conversation at hand, still scrubbing at the blood stain, “all the books in Skyhold, a package of those chocolate delicacies Josephine recommended-- sunshine, good weather for once in Ferelden-- why on earth would I be unhappy?”

“Wishing,” Cole whispers, “wishing but wondering--”

Not this again. Dorian looks up sharply.

“Wounded, and wistful--”

“Cole,” says Dorian, tone more than unkind. “I’ve told you, I don’t want you poking around in my--”

“Weak-kneed when you see him.” The trembling pain in Cole’s voice echoes the ache in Dorian’s chest, and his protests die in his throat. “You want him in a way you’ve never wanted anyone-- but what if he doesn’t want you, after?”

Dorian hates hearing this, these hurts plucked out of his mind and tossed back at him like the reflection in a mirror, forcing him to look at the things that he is so afraid of, the sick feeling that rises in his stomach when Galahad’s smile goes sunny at the sight of him, when Galahad’s tone lightens at the mention of his name and it can’t be nothing, the way he looks at him, but what if after, if _after--_

_You’re a fool to hope for more._

“This,” Dorian says, voice cracking. “This isn’t something-- Cole, please don’t--”

 _Not this,_ he pleads. _Leave this one be._

And for once the spirit lets the matter go.

 

\---

 

Dorian, however, is not and has never been a strong person.

And _further_ is inevitable, with the magnetic way they fit together.

The Inquisitor asks, cautiously, for a moment alone with him-- which seems innocent enough, even after Galahad takes his hand and leads him away from the library, through the passageways to his chambers.

Still innocent enough when, closing the door behind the two of them, he turns, catching Dorian’s arm with a breathless hope that dissolves a moment into a kiss, which turns into five kisses, then ten-- and at last Dorian stops counting, drops the security of innocence and false pretenses altogether and unravels, resolve crumbling, backing Galahad toward the bed and thinking that maybe, for just a little while, he can pretend that his love is want, and that Galahad’s want is love.

Their legs twine together in the sheets, Galahad’s white-pale skin against Dorian’s brown, helpless gasps meeting the thrusts of Dorian’s hips and Dorian can’t help but admire the teasing symmetry of Galahad's winded voice and laughing eyes, looking so content pinned beneath Dorian’s body that he feels as if his heart will burst. Galahad praises him, smiling and sweet and then, without warning, sultry, nipping against Dorian’s ear now and _Maker, yes, talk, talk to me, don’t stop don't stop tell me--_

Galahad flips them, their positions, suddenly, with one knee tucked under Dorian’s waist. Dorian gasps as his head hits the pillows and then Galahad is straddling him, moving above him, hips rolling, body swaying-- he lowers himself carefully, and he takes Dorian in full. His eyelids fall closed, lips parting to mouth soundless stuttered curses, moon-white hair falling away from his forehead as his head tips back, lashes fluttering over lilac eyes--

Then he is moving, lifting, dropping, _moving_ and moaning the prettiest words, _the way you feel, Dorian, I could never tell you how good. Been wanting you been wanting this you're beautiful, you’re mine--_

“I-- I’m yours,” Dorian stammers, toes curling into the mattress, almost too much and Galahad is smiling again, wicked teeth and violet gaze and it’s almost too much-- “yours, yours--”

Galahad tenses, body bent back, _shudders._ And it’s no more than a sigh when he lets go, spills hot across Dorian’s chest, but Dorian sees it in his face, the intense, pure pleasure and then he’s draping himself over Dorian and whispering, humming over Dorian’s moans--

“It’s all right,” he croons, “go ahead, it’s okay, sweetheart--”

And Dorian does.

Crying out louder than he means to, vision going blindingly, blissfully white. Clutching at Galahad’s waist. Burying his face into the crook of Galahad’s neck. Riding through the aftershocks, the way Galahad is riding him.

 _Galahad, amatus--_ the word is on the tip of his tongue and he bites it back, stops it like bile halfway up his throat, instead mouthing it, silently, into Galahad’s skin. He wishes, bringing one hand up to tangle his fingers in Galahad’s hair as they both go exhaustedly, bonelessly limp, that touch itself could convey truth.

If that was so Galahad would’ve known that Dorian loved him from the start.

He squirms, as gently as possible, out from underneath Galahad; Galahad makes a soft sound, arms grasping at the empty space where he had been.

“Wha’?” he says intelligibly, having worn himself out. “Dorian?”

“What should I clean myself up with?” Dorian is proud of how steady he keeps his words, considering how badly his hands are shaking. He keeps them hidden, in his lap, away from Galahad’s pretty afterglow eyes.

“Ah,” Galahad mutters, muffled, his elbow draped over his face and the smile obvious in his voice. “Just use the sheets, I don’t mind.”

Dorian almost objects, but it’s not as if Galahad does his own housekeeping. Josephine has long since hired servants to do everything for him. Josephine and Galahad-- that itself would be a good match. No doubt, once this is all over, there will surely be interest in joining the prestige of the Trevelyan’s bloodline with the grace of the Montilyet’s. He bunches some of the fabric of the bedsheets in his hands and wipes away the mess on his chest the best he can, then swings bare legs over the edge of the mattress, a harsh lump building in his throat.

He’s done this before. He can do this again. Clean up, stand up, brush it off, it’s only a bit of fun, Dorian. Tomorrow it’ll be like it never happened, at least until Galahad decides he wants another go-- and when he comes to Dorian again Dorian will give himself away willingly, then and always, because being used is the only way he knows how to love anyone.

From the bed, the Inquisitor lets out a satisfied breath. “That was--” he blurts, delighted, rolling over to bury his face in his pillows, “--something. Maker, that was something.”

“Something,” Dorian repeats agreeably, locking his hands tightly together to stop the shaking.

“To think of the rumors, now that we’ve confirmed Thedas’s stories--” Galahad chuckles, words still a little pleasure-slurred. “Poor Vivienne! They'll tear her apart at Court. It's exhausting just thinking about it-- and speaking of exhausted--”

“Yes,” Dorian says. “Yes, you must be tired, I’ll-- leave you to it, then--”

He hears Galahad shift behind him, propping himself up on one elbow. “Dorian?” Galahad asks, seeing, maybe, the tenseness in Dorian’s shoulders, if not hearing it in his words. “Did you not...like it?”

“Don’t be dense,” Dorian mutters, standing, “of course I liked it.” He tosses his shirt over one shoulder, scanning the room for his small-clothes, trying to remember where he’d dropped them--

“Dorian.”

“In a minute. _Venhedis,_ I shouldn’t have scattered everything--”

_“Dorian--”_

“In a minute, Inquisitor,” Dorian snaps, because he can’t stand to taste Galahad’s name in his mouth, not so soon after he’s tasted the man himself, his heart constricting in his chest while he chokes on his own stupid, stupid love, “where the fuck did I put my boots--”

 _“Amatus,”_ says Galahad, softly, and Dorian freezes.

He turns, slowly, back toward the bed.

“I know what it means,” Galahad says. He has vulnerability pooling in his eyes and it doesn’t seem to belong there, not against the perfect lavender of his irises. “Krem told me.”

Dorian can’t seem to remember how to breathe. Or how to speak.

“And I,” Galahad asks, voice so small, so suddenly, “would so love to...to hear it, again.”

“From-- me?” Dorian croaks.

Galahad laughs, but it breaks in the middle. “Dorian, I-- Maker, who else?”

_A fool, you’d be a fool to hope--_

He is standing in the mighty Inquisitor’s chambers, stark naked, and he wants to cry, in a way he hasn’t wanted to cry for a very long time.

“Come back to bed,” Galahad says, hand stretching out and fingers trembling, just slightly. “Let me-- let me hold you, love, sweetheart, mine--”

Dorian comes into his arms with a quiet noise dangerously close to a whimper, and Galahad is whispering, at once, soft, gentle nothings, burying words into his skin with kisses like promises, and it spills out of Dorian’s mouth at last, _amatus, amatus, amatus--_

_Beloved, beloved, beloved._

 

\---

 

“You’re happy, Dorian,” Cole says, absentmindedly, on the eve of a foggy, sun-sinking dusk on the Storm Coast. “Happier, than before.”

“Am I, now?” He tears his gaze away from the horizon, where Galahad is teaching Sera how to skip stones across smooth waves, to glance down at the little wisp of a spirit. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Wishing but wondering, wounded and wistful-- what if he doesn’t want me after...?”

“But he did,” Dorian says, smiling. “He does.”

And Cole hums contentedly, as Galahad tosses his stones, and laughs into the sunset.


End file.
